Sherlock's Lost Days
by MiyanaMistborn
Summary: Sherlock pre-meeting John, pre detective, set when he is in university in the throes of boredom and therefore drug-addiction. Mycroft pays him a visit later on to try and get him to kick the habit, with interesting results. Rated T for drug use.
1. Chapter 1

**First Sherlock fic. Reviews however critical are welcome, i'm always grateful for tips and suggestions. I apologise to anyone who isn't English who reads this, I do not know if I use slang that isn't commonly used anywhere else, please tell me if I do. I decided to do this fic because I always see the ex-chemical side of Sherlock rather than a heroin addict as other people suspect him to be, I chose meth because I didn't want to write about a coked-up Sherlock (coke turns people into absolute assholes and I couldn't picture him being more of a dick than usual)**

Sherlock shivered as he waited in the cold dark of night, I really must invest in a scarf he mused to himself. The slender fingers of his left hand as he shoved it into his coat pocket touched against the £60 that was already inhabiting it._ I should go home and try to rest, someone is bound to notice that I will be on a comedown, I'll be irritable and tired and hungry, someone would notice. If someone actually knew me well enough, if i ever let someone in. I'm so alone._

It was ten self-hating minutes later when his dealer strode around the corner of the building that he was leaning against, he hurriedly righted himself and pulled out the notes from his pocket, thrusting his hand towards the woman with a powerful need that he couldn't quite source. With his amazing skill at reading other people, Sherlock was remarkably blind when it came to himself, he didn't seem to realise or didn't care that this had become a habit.

The woman didn't even look at Sherlock for more than a passing glance, Sherlock was a regular she knew what exactly and how much he wanted. She grasped the 60 pounds and replaced them with a small, sealed plastic bag filled with tiny white crystals, almost like washing powder, except it wasn't, this was meth.

The door slammed shut behind Sherlock as he rushed into the tiny flat, he didn't bother with stealth as he had no-one to bother with his loud noises. Throwing his coat and shoes haphazardly onto the sofa in the lounge/kitchen he immediately sat next to the darkly varnished coffee table and poured all of the contents of the bag into a small heap at the side table. In front of Sherlock was an unused credit card and a straw that he had cut short, that wth the pile of powder at his elbow was all tht he needed for the next few days to drown out the buzz of humanity from the back of his mind. Using the credit card he racked up quite a big line and, using the straw, swiftly packed it up his nose and into his system, he lay back against the sofa and waited for the rush to kick in.

Feeling the sensitivity of his skn increase, the corner of his lips curled upwards slightly in a smile and he rest his head back against the sofa as he could feel his body start to twitch in time with his leg tapping aganst the floor. He crawled over to the cd player by the window and he turned on some classical music that had a fairly quick beat, his head bopped along and he spread out his arms and twirled slowly, feeling the freedom of having few inhibitions left, the rest burned away with his troubles under the rush. He half strode, half skipped over to the immaculately clean kitchen to boil the kettle for a cup of strong tea with lots of sugar in it. While waiting for the water to boil he fetched a stick of gum from the cupboard for when he started to gurn and lit a cigarette. The raw scratching of the smoke against his throat always made him feel even better than the hightened state he was in at the moment. He ws blowing smoke rings at the ceiling, still twirling in the corner of the kitchen to the music softly playing when there was a short and sharp knock at the door with an object, wooden by the sound of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock twirled over to the door, the redness in his nose subsiding, bringing the stinging pain in his sinus that comes with the feeling of freedom. He hopped once on his way and opened the door with a flourish. Mycroft was outlined in the dim light of the hallway, Sherlock's face dropped at the sight of his pasty skinned older brother. "Mycroft." He said curtly, all joy gone from his demeanour as he looked to the floor to try and hide his dilated pupils. _Suit slightly rumpled, hair in disarray, thinning a bit, the smell of cheap leather twinned with slight body odour, here in a rush then, worried alot recently, the job must be getting stressful, maybe a recent promotion or the possibility of one._

Mycroft strode into the room, not even acknowledging that Sherlock had spoken and jabbed the umbrella that he had taken to carrying recently at the coffee table. "Bored again Sherlock?" he drawled in a near-monotone, a slight frown line appeared on his forehead as he surveyed the rest of the tiny one-bed flat with those watery eyes framed with dark circles that missed nothing, a family trait. He took a seat on the brown suede sofa and pulled a black file out of his suit coat, he looked pointedly at the crowded coffee table before offering it out to Sherlock himself. Taking it with a cautious hand he looked at Mycroft and raised his dark eyebrow in a questioning manner before flipping through it.

Mycroft watched in silence for a few moments and cleared his throat pointedly when he saw that Sherlock was having trouble focusing his eyes on the paper, he waited until Sherlock had lifted his eyes to look at Mycroft instead of tackling the print on the paper to speak. "It's a police report. A burglary under strange circumstances. I thought it might abate the ...uh... boredom." he said, letting his eyes stray to the white powder on the table. Sherlock followed his gaze and clenched his jaws in irritation as he realised that Mycroft was going to try and stop him acquiring his freedom. Sherlock glanced at the police report in his hands before flinging it out of the front door, he stood holding the door open and looked at his feet. "Out." his voice thick with irritation, he studied Mycroft's face which had blanched and he realised that he was going to try and speak, "OUT!" he roared, his fury surprising Mycroft. Standing smoothly, he tapped his umbrella against the floor before striding out of the door without a glance behind him, his expensive shoes clicking against the hard flooring.

Sherlock looked at the file left in the hallway with curiosity before the coffee table caught his eye, he closed the door and crouched by the table. Another line, a bigger rush, as it built on top of the line he had had previously. He raised his head, and wiped his nose with his hand in an undignified manner to get rid of any crystals left lingering there, leaning his head back he started to hum along with the music until restlessness got the better of him. With energy rushing through his body he started to clean the already spotless flat, swaying to the music as he did so. Three hours later, when not a speck of dust could be found and he was cleaning the front door, he looked through the spyhole. Sure enough the file was still laying there in disarray. Checking to make sure that no-one was walking down the hallway, he snatched it up and ran back inside the safety of his flat before sitting on the sofa, resting the file on his lap and opening it, determined to focus his eyes and read it. No matter how long it took.

More to come :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry! Ridiculous writer's block. I don't own any of the characters and all that jazz. BTW, MH is Mycroft not Molly, just to clarify.**

"OH!"

Sherlock hopped up from the sofa as realisation suddenly hit him, he did a celebratory jig around his tiny bedsit before throwing his skinny body back onto the cushions and whipping out his phone from his trouser pocket. Smirking to himself with pride he sent a text.

_The wife is Bournemouth. So is her lover. Husband wanted the life insurance. SH_

Glancing around the dingy room, Sherlock quickly realised that roughly two hours had slipped by without him noticing but his mind was rapidly careening out of control again and observing and cataloguing everything, not only that but the effects of the drug were wearing off, so his body was no longer as quick as his mind. Grasping his head with his hands, Sherlock moaned quietly against the overwhelming flow of useless observations and deductions that his mind was constantly forcing upon him. Scrubbing at his hair didn't help, no matter how many times he did it. He let himself slide to the floor in front of the table and racked up another line before quickly snorting the length before him.  
As he sat back with another cigarette lit he realised that he was feeling a rare emotion. well, rare for him anyway. He felt regret. Not only that he was bored, but that he actually didn't want to solve that mystery as quickly as he had, those two hours that he had spent trying to put himself into the mindset of others actually made the constant flow in his mind easier to ignore. Even the meth, the only salvation he had discovered only turned the flood into a dull roar and quickened his body to match his mind, it didn't help him cope. Not really.

3 days later

Sherlock jerked his head up from the crook of his arm and saw that he had crashed out on the sofa again. He closed his eyes against the early morning light streaming in and curled up facing the back of the seat. He had crashed. He had run out of both drugs and funds. Here comes the comedown.  
He awoke again an hour later after dozing lightly to the horrible aftertaste that comes with smoking way too much in a short amount of time as well as a sickenly dry mouth and tongue. His jaw ached. His eyes ached. He ached everywhere. Flexing his little toe he found that, yep, he was aching everywhere. Sluggishly drawing himself off of the sofa to get a cup of tea, he noticed the inflamed rash on his left arm where he must have been compulsively scratching at it during his binge. Delaying the tea for the moment, Sherlock plodded to the bathroom to get a bandage and wet it under the tap before wrapping his arm, soothing and stinging at it at the same time.

In time during which he was in the bathroom he must have recieved a text as the light was flashing on his phone.

_If you wish, you may go to New Scotland Yard and assist D.I. Lestrade on some of his cases. First however, you must go to a rehabilitation centre. MH_

He grimaced first and the glaring light from the phone, and then after at the text as he read it. He stood perfectly still for 3 minutes while he thought the situation through before replying.

_When? SH_


End file.
